


too many flesh suppers

by cexies



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, or i guess the spiral into it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cexies/pseuds/cexies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For aliens who get appear to find intoxication through watered down sugar, the idea of drinking actual alcohol is laughably stupid. The troll is ever-so curious into how it works, and Rose finds herself sparse on explanation for once. How does one begin to explain that a culture has developed Stockholm syndrome to the effects of flavored poisoning? </p><p>She begins to wonder if her quest is for nostalgia, or intervention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	too many flesh suppers

"I am beginning to wonder if cabin fever is affecting my abilities."

It's not often that Rose indulges into the inquiries of those within bubbles, but Aradia seems to be an exception. The omniscient guide of white text has disappeared--with good reason, she makes sure to reaffirm--leaving a hole that craves recognition and confirmation. Aradia is a close second best, even if her agenda and priorities never seem to be fixated on anything in particular.  _To be so autonomous_ , Rose wistfully notes,  _would be the lesser burden._

"Oh?" Aradia cocks her head with pursed lips, silently pressing.

"My understanding is that I can seek out the outcome that leaves us with the most fortune: luck: prosperity." Aradia nods, and it is a small mercy that the basics are still correct. "Then there seems to be a problem. I cannot seek out the best outcome anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"To put it simply, everyone dies." She frowns, self correcting. "Well, no. It only applies to the remaining trolls. If I didn't know better, I would guess my role is suddenly akin to Terezi's."

"But you're so different to Terezi! A seer of light and a seer of mind are basically two different roles, you can barely call them related at all," Aradia interrupts, legs lightly kicking against the balcony. 

"The perception of both seems to be the same at the moment."

"Doomed?" The troll asks, but they both know there is nothing to question. "Sollux always spoke about that y'know--about how doom will always be the most important, because that's the future the trolls are condemned to."

There is a DSM with Sollux's name written on it, and how Rose wishes to analyse the little clusterfuck of a Freudian's dream patient. It's why anything with his name mentioned should be taken with a pinch of salt: the words of the paranoid do not reflect reality. Even though she knows this, Rose can't help but know: she has to ask, because her hunger for knowledge--objectively right or wrong knowledge--is insatiable.

"Is Sollux often right?" 

There's a pause where Aradia hums with thought, a tempo that differs from soft movement of her wings. The sounds clash against Rose's ears, already full with blood pounding from a breath she wasn't aware she was holding.

"Let's find out," Aradia laughs, a sound that provokes caution. Rose respects her, but lately she isn't sure how far that merges into trust. The troll's natural alignment to death leaves Rose wary: always aware of which creatures created the dream bubbles, along with her intoxication with madness. 

 _Finding out,_  Rose silently broods,  _is the role of a seer._

\- - - 

Waking requires more strength than Rose believes she holds. It always feels as if no energy regenerates during dream bubbles meetings, and Aradia's vague session always leave a weight that crashes further than any physical exhaustion can. There is nothing a seer can do but think over and over until scenarios have been worn down to sepia. Perhaps Terezi's abdication of the role should have been a sign, but Rose's self-importance reigned over logic. There is no secret that Terezi is losing touch, in more than one way, leaving Rose to lead where her partner in title cannot. 

Her journey into the main foyer is tentative, mind still away with a pixie. Is it right to announce the impending doom of the troll's mortality? Perhaps there  _is_  a flaw in her abilities, clouded by the flexibility of paradox time. There is no need to worry anyone--there has to be someone who keeps levelheaded, and it has always been Rose who feels most comfortable in such a role. A passive leader, to direct and guide with a pen in hand with no weapon in the other. She is a craftsman of thoughts, building up others reality until there is relative truth between expected outcomes.

"Is something the matter?"

Her thoughts stammer at the question, never able to finish a flow when Kanaya's voice ebbs concerns into fragments she can no longer grasp. The problem is that the beauty of Kanaya is almost tainted now, always surrounded by the thoughts of her fate.  _Possible fate_ , Rose corrects with little conviction. Even though she is more than accustomed to the death that Sburb brings, it is almost impossible to equate such a finality to Kanaya. Not the Kanaya who makes her think, question, and apply. She makes Rose second guess every answer in all the ways she has always wished to. A perfect sparring partner for building substance: an even better partner for verstehen. Thinking of her mother still rubs raw, and the thought of Kanaya leaving to join her is unfathomable. 

Perhaps the solution, is not to acknowledge it at all.

"I had a thought of another human pastime, would you care to join me?"

"If this is another expansion into human activities in time-passing then I may have to abstain in an effort to prevent Terezi from consuming any more plastic counters than is necessary."

"I don't think counter eating is necessary in the first place," Rose laughs, a genuine pleasure that is so cruelly rare now that there is far too much time for thinking instead of being.

"Terezi must meet her daily intake of foreign objects."

Their eyes catch, and mirroring smirks spread across their features. Rose snorts in the most undignified manner, but Kanaya simply snorts back. Their moments of goofing off are becoming increasingly slim, and Rose is increasingly unable to work out if it is a natural progression or a reflection of her own conflict.

\- - -

Kanaya is unsure about Rose's experiment and Dave simply passes it off with a lack of faith and a comment about hillbilly moonshine. Nonetheless, Rose presses on with her project. She isn't sure how strong her resolve is in trying the final product, but the peace of equations and measurements is enough to distract her mind. Her heart still belongs to the subjectivity of literature, but the mathematics involved in brewing have captured her restless mind. It leaves no room to worry over the future when calculating how long purifying ethanol takes--there is no connection between measurements of production and death: her mind is finally soothed.

Her evenings are spent in mutual silence with those around her, idly filtering out the background noise of the ventilation while borrowed needles clack in a rhythm that can't reach her anymore.

\- - -

Comfort is a fair weather friend, always fluxuating with no set routine or promises. Eventually, it becomes inconceivable to do anything but capitulate to light. There is poetic justice in the succubus it has become, and her younger days would find a delightful irony in her misfortune. Instead, it simply tests the little patience she has left for her role. 

"How close are you to finishing?" Kanaya inquires, often keeping her distance from the substance. For aliens who get appear to find intoxication through watered down sugar, the idea of drinking actual alcohol is laughably stupid. The troll is ever-so curious into how it works, and Rose finds herself sparse on explanation for once. How does one begin to explain that a culture has developed Stockholm syndrome to the effects of flavored poisoning? 

She begins to wonder if her quest is for nostalgia, or intervention.

\- - -

Kanaya teases her away from the brewing one evening, hushed giggles that Rose lives to coax. She indulges herself for the moment, tracing every contour that her hands can find purchase for. It's only when her lips seek Kanaya's that Rose buckles, mind flashing to ghosts of images that are simultaneously real and fake. Too cold-- _too dead._ She flinches back in shock, brain missing gaps of wiring to allow comprehension of reality and fiction. 

"Sorry, I just--my mind was on other things," she tries to recompose. 

"You're becoming somewhat obsessive with this," Kanaya frowns, lips pursing in the same way Rose has seen them fuss over Karkat from afar. She cannot allow herself to become an object of such pity--to become equated to the same state that everyone is pretending Terezi hasn't reached.

"I just wanted to finish what I've started," she smoothly redirects, moving away so that she can't see her childhood judgment of her mother reflected through Kanaya. 

"Closure?"

"Exactly," Rose nods, with a separate idea to what it constitutes as.

\- - - 

The finalized product comes together with flourished perfection that is typical of anything a Lalonde sets out to achieve. Kanaya looks on with a emotion that Rose can't read anymore, commenting on the competition Jade may have in her field. Rose doesn't respond, only looks upon her creation with a struggle; instead of the expected gratification, there is only lingering discontent. The choice left seems to be to take a sample, and the prospect is as exciting as it is repulsive.

She can feel Kanaya's eyes on her as she pours the drink, but ignores it. Rose has come too far to lose grasp of her elixir now, drawn in by promises that her conscience knows will evaporate.

It's a pity that she is more than finished with listening to it.

There's no martini glasses, and the thought of alchemizing one leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. The alcohol does nothing to sweeten it, only burning with a taste that cannot be described as anything but rancid water. 

"An acquired taste," Rose grimaces, with all--yet none--of sincerity that can be mustered for obligation. She swirls her glass again, an action that carries sophisticated security. Even if it doesn't make her suddenly more mature or wise, it can certainly let her pretend far better than the substance itself could. With resignation, she tips the glass in Kanaya's direction--a toast, she informs the troll.

"What exactly are you toasting?"

Rose laughs with thought, pushing back the shackles of her robes. Nothing has to be amusing anymore and the notion that something ever needed to be is so humorous now. She is fifteen, going on fifty. Kanaya is fifteen, going on to an age that ceases to exist.

"A fortuitous future," she laughs again.


End file.
